


You, in Sunlight

by pandabomb



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Established Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff without Plot, Heavy Petting, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Kissing, Living Together, M/M, Making Out, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Injuries, Old Married Couple, Post-Canon, Romantic Fluff, Self-Reflection, Slice of Life, Tenderness, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 05:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17861360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandabomb/pseuds/pandabomb
Summary: To acquaintances and strangers, Viktor was excellent at hiding his true feelings. Yuuri was beginning to forget what it meant to be a stranger to him.A soft, quiet snapshot from Yuuri and Viktor's earliest days in St. Petersburg together.





	You, in Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, this fic contains very very brief hints of xenophobia and racism, as well as one ww2 reference. Otherwise, we're in unfiltered fluff territory.
> 
> Enjoy.

Wherever he went, Yuuri was always aware of the water.

In Hasetsu, it was the sea and the hot springs. As a child, Yuuri’s daily life had been hinged on such simple axes: the sea was to the west; Ice Castle was north (a fifteen minute run from home); and he was in his homeland, in a coastal, hot spring tourist town, where everyone spoke his language and knew his culture and overlooked him, comfortably so, for having the utterly normal features of chubby cheeks and pitch-black hair and monolid eyes.

Then there was Detroit. In America, Yuuri was both a novelty and a drop in the bucket—just one of Celestino’s many incredible talents; just one of millions of immigrants and their children’s children. His time there was swallowed by the bitter claws of the midwestern winters; by jogs along the Detroit River, alone or with his rinkmates; and by the sunny moments he’d spent with Phichit, a trove of memories stored in a shoebox full of pictures and the happy section of Yuuri’s brain.

St. Petersburg—still new, unfamiliar, and stacked high with chimney-tops and steeped in history—was interwoven with water.

The Gulf of Finland. Neva River and its many canals. Yuuri could see so much of it as he sat on the floor of Viktor’s living room _—their_ living room _—_ leaning back on his hands and staring out the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Boats puttered by. The sun crept among the clouds bashfully, still uncertain if it really wanted to grace the city with an appearance just yet.

The rug beneath Yuuri’s hands, plush and clean, hadn’t been there a few days ago. Idly, he wondered if Viktor had bought it for him. Yuuri was Japanese, after all; he was accustomed to sitting on the floor. The notion that Viktor would carve a place for Yuuri here was as shocking as it was realistic.

At the apartment’s entrance, the door swung open. There was the soft scritch-scratching sound of Makkachin’s paws against the herringbone floors. The _clomp clomp_ of Viktor kicking off his shoes. A muffled _fwump_ as he dropped his coat uncaringly at the door.  Yuuri listened for a few moments, taking in the quiet scuffles of Makka’s soft feet and Viktor’s whispered commands and encouragements. Only after Makka bounded into the living room—seeking Yuuri out immediately; she was used to him being there when she returned—did Yuuri lean his head back and call out: _“Okaeri.”_

Makka pushed her head into his temple and licked his cheek, partly in greeting and partly in desperate pleading for more pets. She was a good girl, but Yuuri had never met a dog quite so keen on being touched and praised literally at all times.

When Viktor’s reply floated in from the entrance, it was both sweet and heavy. _“Tadaima.”_

To acquaintances and strangers, Viktor was excellent at hiding his true feelings. Yuuri was beginning to forget what it meant to be a stranger to him.

Yuuri scratched behind Makka’s ears as he asked him, “What’s wrong?”

Finally, Viktor shuffled inside and into view—and Yuuri had to remind himself not to let his breath catch. Viktor was visibly exhausted: frowning, bags under his eyes, lower lip pouting and bitten to a slight swell, hair just a touch darker than usual with grease. Yet all that was incredible in itself, a secret world of intimacy by weakness that Yuuri never even imagined he would be privy to.

When Viktor reached Yuuri, he dropped to his knees, patted Makkachin once on the top of her head, and draped himself entirely slack over Yuuri’s back and shoulders. He nuzzled his face into the bared corner of Yuuri’s neck and right shoulder.

Yuuri flinched at the contact.

“Hm?” Viktor prompted.

Yuuri huffed a laugh under his breath. “Your nose is freezing.”

Viktor burrowed again into Yuuri’s skin, his own amused huff glancing off the skin above Yuuri’s pulsepoint.

Yuuri took his left hand from behind Makkachin’s ear—a grave error; she whine-grumbled disappointingly—and crossed it over his chest to poke Viktor’s head. “What is it?” He asked again, poking Viktor two more times for good measure.

Viktor sighed heavily; said nothing. This didn’t mean he didn’t _want_ to tell Yuuri—it meant he wanted Yuuri to coax it out of him, ideally while pampering and cooing as he did it.

Instead of all that, Yuuri lowered his chest until it touched the floor, the movement stabilized by his spread, stretched-out legs. The moment Viktor was low enough to be an easy option, Makkachin went in for the sloppiest kisses she could muster. A laugh and a sputter accompanied the wet sounds of Makka’s licks. Viktor said something fond to her in Russian, then snapped a finger up and away—letting Makkachin know that they needed some space. She happily trotted over to the couch, hopping up to take her usual spot near the armrest.

Viktor wiped his wet face on the back of Yuuri’s shirt. Yuuri frowned a little at this, but he wasn’t exactly in the position to do much about it; Viktor’s weight was still pinning him in half—and not in the way he typically enjoyed.

Another sigh. This time it was short, sharp. Yuuri recognized it as the noise he made when he didn’t know how to explain a skill to Yuuri, or how to persuade Yurio to be a little friendlier to his fans. It was a frustrated, helpless sound.

When he finally spoke, Viktor’s tone was small, subdued. “My body….hurts.”

Yuuri filed through a few answers in his head—placations, reassurances, commiseration. But none of them seemed worthy of saying aloud. Instead, he asked: “Did you see the PT yesterday?”

“Of course.”

“When is the chiropractor?”

“In two days.”

Then it was Yuuri’s turn to sigh. He was getting a little tired of being folded up, squashed between Viktor’s bulk and the brand-new rug. “How is your ankle?”

Recently, a long-ago injury from Viktor’s junior years had reared its ugly head. “It’s….attached.”

“And your knee?”

“That’s attached too.”

At that answer, Yuuri nearly rolled his eyes. The state of Viktor’s knee was practically a global concern. It would never get better, but they could at least try to slow its deterioration.  “Would you tell me, if it got worse?”

“Yes,” Viktor replied. “If you asked me directly.”

“Okay. Has it gotten worse?”

“What does it matter?” Viktor muttered. His nose wasn’t cold anymore; his breath was warm against the back of Yuuri’s ear. “Better, worse. It won’t affect what I do.”

“You’re starting to sound like Yurio,” Yuuri mumbled. “Let me up.”

“Nooooo….” Viktor complained; yet when Yuuri pushed to sit up, Viktor let him.

Upright, Yuuri tucked his legs in to sit cross-legged. Viktor stayed draped over his shoulders, most of his weight eased off. Where Yuuri’s skin was exposed to him, along his upper spine, neck, and jawline, Viktor’s lips left small wisps of touch, more grazes of pressure than true kisses.

Yuuri looked out the window. The canal below glimmered dully in the morning light. “Are you in a lot of pain?”

Viktor took a moment to answer—probably deciding whether or not his pain constituted _a lot_. Yuuri frowned at that, brow creasing.

“I’ll need a new knee,” Viktor said—and for a split-second, Yuuri’s stomach plummeted. “Maybe when I’m forty or so.”

Yuuri’s stomach settled back in place. He turned to level Viktor with a dark stare. “Viktor. That isn’t funny.”

The instant their eyes met, Viktor beamed. “It’s a little funny.”

“No, it’s n—”

Viktor cradled the side of Yuuri’s cheek as he kissed him. The movements of his lips were warm, slow, beloved; Yuuri was easily swept in, pulse quickening by a beat and face pinking under Viktor’s tender touch.

Viktor beamed again when they parted. “You’ll love me even then, yes? When I’m forty and both my legs have popped off?”

Yuuri hated when he blushed this badly; he couldn’t help frowning at the thought of how stupid he must look, in the face of Viktor’s beautiful smile and dashing flush. “Of course I will.”

Viktor’s head tilted slightly. “What about when I’m fifty, and I’ve lost all my hair?”

Yuuri pursed his lips, turned away, and cast a glance out the window again. “Hmm.”

“Yuu-uuri….” Viktor whined testily. He slid to the floor, next to Yuuri’s bent legs, and squirmed until his head rested on Yuuri’s lap; to accommodate his neck, Yuuri shifted his legs so they weren’t propped atop one another, a little lower to the floor. “You’ll love me even then, right?”

His tone and expression both said, _dote on me, praise me, coax me_ —which, of course, meant that Yuuri wanted to mess with him all the more.

He ran his fingers through Viktor’s hair, the strands pale and catching the late morning light, as gleaming and smooth as the canal shimmering below. Yuuri let his own head tilt, just a tad. “You think your hair will last to fifty?”

Viktor’s mouth dropped open, aghast. “What do you mean?”

“Hmm,” Yuuri said, turning to the window yet again.

“ _Yuu-uuri-iiii…._ ” Viktor whined again, wrapping his arms around Yuuri’s waist. But he didn’t say anything more.

So Yuuri stared out the window, just thinking and watching the gulls flap by. He glanced from passerby to passerby, wondering whether or not he’d really be able to communicate with any of them. His Russian wasn’t entirely hopeless, but it was limited— _please, thank you, how are you, how is the weather, where is the restroom._

As Yuuri studied the city below, he felt the quiet and continuous weight of Viktor’s eyes on him.

“Do you like St. Petersburg?”

Yuuri turned, gave Viktor a small smile. “It’s pretty.”

Viktor exhaled through his nose, long and slow. “Does that mean you like it?”

The water, on every side; a honeycomb of river, harbor, gulf, canal. Another city where Yuuri was an outsider, where he saw the constant recognition of _stranger_ flitting across the faces of longtime locals. Yet over all that, there was the familiar call of the gulls, the comfort of the rink, and the patter of Makkachin’s paws.

And there was Viktor.

“I like it,” Yuuri replied. He glanced back outside, to the city that would become another home; then back to Viktor, who was already home. “I’m still a little nervous about my Russian. But I think it helps that I know English.”

Viktor smiled. “If they don’t recognize you outright, people here think you’re American.”

Yuuri’s brows rose. “Really?”

“Mhm. You don’t have much of an accent. Or, well—you have an American one.”

In his mind, Yuuri recalled the haughty chuckles of his college classmates as his tongue stumbled to combine consonants, or as he mingled the “L” and “R” sounds like hot glue overflowing in the front of his mouth. But it had been a long time since then, enough that the shame of the moment had faded to a hollowed, paltry echo.

Yuuri hummed in consideration. “Is that so.”

Viktor did not respond to that. Yuuri didn’t expect him to. Instead, they returned to their respective subjects—Yuuri watching the city, Viktor watching Yuuri. Although it had taken Yuuri a long time to become accustomed to Viktor’s eyes on him, he’d always relished it, in the rink and even in silence—or in the hushed moments when all that could be heard was the delicate _swish_ of Yuuri’s fingers over Viktor’s hair.

“This will be my last season,” Viktor said. His tone was devoid of sentiment, carrying only fact. Stubbornly so. “My body can’t endure much more.”

Yuuri’s fingers halted. He looked down at Viktor—at the love of his life, who looked back with only resolve and the fleeting grimace of pain. On the subject of Viktor’s body—whether he was doing irreparable damage, even now; if he was caring for himself properly, or forgetting to eat, yet again, among the flurry of his many appointments and Yuuri’s own schedule—Yuuri decided that it wasn’t the time to delve. Those conversations, or arguments, would unfold soon enough.

Yuuri went back to weaving his fingers through Viktor’s hair. “What should we do once you retire?”

“Well, actually, I already have an idea for your free skate next season—”

“No,” Yuuri interrupted, smiling a little. “I mean. Should we go somewhere?”

“Oh.” Viktor shut his mouth, thought for a moment, then: “Like a late honeymoon?”

Yuuri nodded.

“No, no,” Viktor said, waving a hand. “Our honeymoon will be after _you_ retire.”

“We could have two of them.”

Viktor grinned. “So eager to whisk me away on a romantic trip, my Yuuri _—_ ”

Yuuri had learned so much from Viktor—including the art of shutting your fiancé up with a kiss. It was awkward to fold himself into a position where he didn’t pull on Viktor’s neck, but well worth the trouble when Viktor went gladly still and quiet beneath him.

“You’re right. I do want to take you away. Sometimes, I like to think that I’ve stolen you away from the world already,” Yuuri said, the words ghosted against Viktor’s lips.

“You have,” Viktor whispered back, his voice adamant and a little breathless.

Yuuri smiled, rubbing a thumb against the side of Viktor’s mouth. “But….I also think that retirement will be hard on you. More than you know or want to let on.”

Viktor lifted his mouth, eager to press their lips together again. “What,” he muttered, then kissed, “could be,” kiss, “so hard?” When Yuuri shifted up, pressing his lips to Viktor’s forehead before sitting up straight, Viktor continued: “You’ll be with me. And I’ve spent a season rinkside before. I’ll be okay doing it again.”

“That was by choice,” Yuuri reminded him. “This time, it won’t be a decision anymore.”

Viktor snuggled closer, then pouted. “But you said you’d love me without legs or hair.”

“But will you?”

“Hm?”

“Will you love yourself?” Yuuri asked.

So much of Viktor’s identity and self-worth rested on his physical ability. Even if it didn’t spoil him—even if his hints of arrogance never strayed beyond the well-deserved, grounded in a factual status of experience and superiority—they had no idea how he would respond to his own body betraying him, aging, and crumbling before his eyes.

Viktor knew it too. But he couldn’t know what it would be like until it truly began.

He grinned up at Yuuri—yet his eyes were uncertain. “It’s much easier to love me when you do it so well.”

Yuuri ignored the way his lip wobbled at that; he’d always been particularly pathetic when it came to Viktor and his sappy ways. He leaned down to kiss Viktor again, chasing the bitter smile across Viktor’s lips.

Viktor immediately guided him closer in. When Yuuri’s back began to protest, he hummed against Viktor’s mouth; Viktor sat up at the sound, but only enough for Yuuri to reposition again, drawing his legs up and back so he could climb atop Viktor—suddenly very glad that his ridiculous fiancé had just bought a nice new rug.

Viktor easily and gladly spread his legs so Yuuri could rest a knee between them. As they kissed more, longer, sharing their breath and smiles, Viktor’s legs spread even further, pushed apart by Yuuri’s thighs and pressing hands. Yuuri swept a hand up and down Viktor’s inner thigh; the dark fabric of his loose athletic pants bunched under Yuuri’s touch.

“Thin for the weather,” Yuuri remarked.

“I’m Russian,” Viktor answered easily.

That answer made perfect sense when Viktor’s tongue was in Yuuri’s mouth.

Yuuri spread Viktor’s thighs a little more, eager to pull Viktor apart—until a horrid _pop_ halted him in his tracks entirely.

For a second, Viktor also seemed frozen in shock. Then he laughed. “Wow! That one was loud.”

Yuuri rubbed the source of the crack, his fingers digging into Viktor’s hip and spurred on by no small amount of fretting. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Don’t worry.”

“It’s just, it sounded very—”

“It’s fine! I’m sure the chiropractor will get the rest of it.”

Yuuri remembered Viktor’s chiropractor: an old man with a big, bushy mustache and a booming voice who had, more than once, made odd and uncomfortable World War Two references in Yuuri’s general direction. Yuuri’s face contorted into a bemused half-smile, half-grimace. “Very sexy of you to mention him.”

Viktor laughed again; he then loudly and horrifically mimicked the man’s distinct voice and thick accent to say: “I speak dirty at you, _da?_ ”

“ _Please_ don’t do that,” Yuuri pled—but he was biting his lower lip to keep from snorting.

“First, we must push leg up like baby is coming _—_ ”

Yuuri made an ugly noise from the back of his nose. It still astounded him how, after all this time together, they could talk or joke about nearly anything without breaking a mood; but that didn’t mean he _wanted_ Viktor to make impressions when their groins were pressed together. “Viktor, stop, I mean it.”

Viktor winked. “Then you’ll have to kiss me.”

Yuuri was grinning as he took Viktor’s mouth again—and neither of them could quite stop the chuckles that slipped out between kisses.

Slowly, steadily, the heat built between them. It was in each press of their mouths; it emanated from every touch, caress, and skim of warmed palms against newly bared skin. Viktor’s arms were gentle as they snaked up and around Yuuri’s shoulders. Viktor’s sides were slender and smooth to the touch as Yuuri pushed up his shirt. Viktor’s hips, just that slight bit bonier than they were in the off-season, yielded sweetly under the pressure of Yuuri’s own—as well as under the careful, doting attention of Yuuri’s continually massaging fingertips.

As Viktor hooked a leg around Yuuri’s thigh—drawing Yuuri ever closer and pressing together the bulges at the front of their pants in a slow, gorgeous drag—a sudden slurping sound broke Yuuri’s focus.

He only realized Makkachin was cleaning herself, _very_ loudly, when Viktor pulled away to make an annoyed _tsk_ at her.

“Makka,” Viktor scolded, “Нельзя.”

Dutifully, she stopped. And began to stare at the two of them without blinking.

They all held a solid four seconds’ worth of eye contact before Viktor and Yuuri turned to look at each other.

“Bedroom?” Viktor suggested.

Yuuri was about to agree—right before Viktor’s stomach grumbled so loudly that he could feel it roiling under his palm.

There was something bizarrely endearing in the way Viktor’s expression warred between embarrassment and sexual desperation. “No,” Viktor said, already anticipating what Yuuri was going to say. “I don’t need lunch yet; I had a snack at the rink, I promise.”

But Yuuri was already shifting to stand up.

Viktor took his wrist in hand, gently but fervently. “Please, Yuuri? I need this. I need _you_. I’ve missed you so much _—_ ”

Yuuri bent down to give him a quick kiss. “I love you,” he said _—_ and Viktor even pouted again when they parted. “That means I have to feed you.”

As Yuuri stood entirely, Viktor rolled over onto his stomach, groaning at the floor. “You’re turning into Hiroko….” he grumbled, words nearly drowned in the rug.

Yuuri entered the kitchen. The apartment had an open plan, so even as he opened the fridge, it was easy to say: “Do you really think I could sleep with you when your stomach is making such a racket?”

“ _I_ could,” Viktor whined. “I could have sex with you in a clown suit. Or worse _—_ I could have sex with you if you wore JJ’s green free skate costume.”

Yuuri ignored that and pointedly did _not_ crack a smile as he rifled through the prepped meals the nutritionist had delivered a few days prior. “Do you want the salmon or the chicken?”

Viktor groaned. He could really be _such_ a baby sometimes. “I’ll have whatever you feed me, my love.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes. He grabbed one of the salmon and one of the chicken—they might as well both have lunch _—_ and shut the fridge.

“Come to the counter,” Yuuri said, snagging two forks and knives each from the silverware drawer.

Viktor sat up and glanced out the window—down at the canal, with its boats puttering by; the passersby, who Yuuri probably wouldn’t be able to speak with, nor ever meet; at the sun finally streaming its gentle light from an exposed perch among the pale, fluffy clouds.

“Come sit with me,” Viktor beckoned, lifting up one open hand. “It’s beautiful outside.”

 _Yes_ , Yuuri thought. _It really is_.

He sat. Viktor leaned between Yuuri’s parted legs, his back to Yuuri’s chest. They ate lunch there—sharing bites from the same fork, listening to Makkachin’s quiet snoring, and watching the gulls tumble and twist through the St. Petersburg sky.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually physically cannot believe that I wrote something so pointlessly sappy.
> 
> Also unbelievable: I wrote something canon compliant! tbh I have sooooo so so many AUs currently just sitting and collecting dust on my drive. I'm considering starting a little blog where I can dump all my random little WIPs and such. Would anyone be down to look at something like that?
> 
> If you want to see more content from me, I encourage you to leave a comment. I may not respond, but I read and adore each one!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this, brief and silly as it was. Thanks for reading.


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